None cherished grander dreams than Justinian. I soon learned the extent of them, along with the meaning of Belisarius’ words when he took my oath in the Hippodrome.
The Heruli had their barracks and training ground outside the city, since they weren’t trusted enough to be quartered within the walls. At first I struggled to earn their grudging tolerance, as I struggled to learn their drill and how to use spears and javelins from horseback. They were raised in the saddle, like most of these nomadic barbarian tribes, and heartily despised anyone who couldn’t match their skill at horsemanship.
At meals I sat apart, wincing as I tried to force down the crude mess of beans, stew and black bread that made up their rations. The Heruli liked to wash down this ghastly repast with great draughts of foul-tasting ale. It was powerful stuff, and fights inevitably broke out, often resulting in serious injury or even death. Such incidents seldom met with any punishment. There was no-one to enforce it, and a few crippled or dead foederati were counted as no great loss. Such was the discipline of the Roman army in this degenerate age!
On the seventh day after my enlistment, a Roman officer came to the camp with orders for me to accompany him to the palace. The commander of the Heruli, a foul-mouthed veteran named Pharas, shrugged and gave me permission to go.
We rode into the city via one of the Military Gates and made our way along the Mese towards the palace. The thoroughfare was less densely-populated than usual, for the Nika riots and the massacre at the Hippodrome cast a long shadow. Guardsmen patrolled the streets, casting suspicious eyes on the citizens and making arrests on the slightest pretext.
The Hippodrome itself, once the heartbeat of the city, was dark and silent. Justinian had ordered the Circus to be closed down, and the surviving rebels either imprisoned or sold into slavery. Some of these wretches were forced to remove the rotting bodies of their former comrades from the arena, and to scrub it clean of blood. Even so, the Hippodrome still stank of death, and I had to clap a hand over my face as we rode past.
A dozen or so slaves were formed into a group outside the gates, chained together under the watchful gaze of a troop of Huns. The slaves bore the marks of slavery branded into their cheeks and shoulders. A few glanced up in surprise as I cantered by, and no doubt wondered how Britannicus had managed to avoid their miserable fate.
As we approached the Augusteum, I noticed a number of serious-looking men carrying charts and styluses and examining the charred ruins of the buildings destroyed by the rioters. These were Justinian’s architects, employed to plan his grand project to rebuild the centre of the city. Their labours would eventually result in the great domed cathedral of Hagia Sophia, built on the foundations of the old basilica church, and one of the wonders of the world. The Emperor’s grand vision, shared by few at the time, was typical of the strange mixture of capacity, spite, wisdom, foresight and envy that made up his character.
We entered the palace via the Chalke Gate, where the officer exchanged salutes with the Excubitors on duty. I noticed how young and fresh-faced they were, and that Captain Leontius and his men were absent.
“Leontius and his fellow waverers were stripped of their rank after the riots,” the officer explained in response to my query, “and sent to the Eastern front. The men at the gate are raw recruits. They are young and inexperienced, but at least their loyalty is not suspect.”
He led me to the upper levels of the palace, up flights of stairs and through a warren of halls and corridors, until we reached a suite of private rooms guarded by a couple of Belisarius’s Veterans. They stood aside to allow us through into a large, sparsely-furnished chamber that opened onto a balcony with a splendid view of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara.
Belisarius and Narses were sitting at a table in the centre of the room, poring over a scattered heap of maps. Neither of them looked up as we entered.
“Sirs,” announced the officer, “as instructed, I have brought the Briton from the camp of the Heruli.”
“Thank you,” murmured Narses, “go and attend to your duties. I’m sure you must have some.”
He flapped a plump hand vaguely in the direction of the officer, who saluted and marched out. The eunuch and the general scraped back their chairs and turned their attention to me.
“How is the life of a soldier suiting you, Coel?” asked Belisarius, “I trust the company of the Heruli is not too unbearable. They are rough souls, but among the best fighters we have.”
“It is hard, sir,” I admitted, “but no harder than I expected.”
“I am impressed by your forbearance,” said Narses, lacing his fingers together over his protruding belly, “the Heruli are a smelly, undisciplined pack of savages. I could not bear their company for an hour, let alone a week.”
I said nothing, and wondered at their reason for summoning me. These men were the twin pillars that the Empire rested on. Everything they did was for the sake of Rome — mingled, in the case of Narses, with private ambition.
“Come closer,” said Belisarius, “and take a look at this map.”
I approached the table. The map he indicated showed the coastline of North Africa, with the cities of Carthage and Hippo Regius marked out in red.
“You must have heard,” he added, “that the Emperor has designs on reclaiming North Africa for Rome.”
I nodded. It was common knowledge that Justinian wished to retake the former Roman province, though his plans had been interrupted by the riots. Two years previously, the reigning King of the Vandals, Hilderic, had been deposed and imprisoned by his cousin Gelimer. Seeing an opportunity to exploit discord among the Vandals, Justinian had wasted no time in protesting at Hilderic’s treatment and demanding his release and restoration. Secure in his power and contemptuous of the Romans, whom he regarded as degenerate, Gelimer ignored him.
That was the situation as I, and most Roman citizens who took an interest in the world outside Constantinople, understood it. Justinian’s interference in North Africa seemed another of his vain follies. Sixty years previously, a previous Emperor had tried to reconquer the province with a fleet of ten thousand ships and an army of over a hundred thousand men. The fleet and the army were both exterminated by the Vandals, and the Roman military had never truly recovered. Certainly the Empire could never hope to mount such a vast expedition again.
“Now that order has been restored to the capital,” said Belisarius, “Caesar is determined to resume his plans. The invasion of North Africa will go ahead, and I have been appointed to lead the expedition. Close your mouth, Coel, you might catch flies.”
I stopped gaping and racked my brains for something to say. There was nothing positive to be said about the proposed expedition. It was madness, sheer vanity, though at least now I understood why Belisarius had recommended I join the army.
Narses was watching me closely. “Belisarius has told me about your lost property,” he said in the ridiculous high-pitched trill that masked his formidable intellect, “a sword owned by your grandfather. Arthur, wasn’t it? Some barbaric name. He assumed an old Roman title and governed your island for a time.”
“Careful, Narses,” Belisarius warned, only half-mockingly, “Coel is delicate on the subject of his grandfather. Arthur was a good soldier, and succeeded in defending Britain from the pirates and renegades that wished to plunder it. Something our legions failed to do.”
Narses ignored him. “What were you told about this sword?” he asked. His eyes, dark oversized orbs under heavy brows, bored into mine.
I cleared my throat. “Everything I know about it I had from my mother, lord,” I replied truthfully, “the sword is called Caledfwlch in our tongue, though it has other names.”
“Caledfwlch,” Narses echoed, rolling the name around his mouth, “how does that translate? What are these other names?”